


Sophrosyne

by linguamortua



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Choking, Curtain Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, don't look at me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: Mike likes to give Nate what he wants. This becomes a problem when what Nate wants is dangerous. And the worst part is, Nate isn't acting like himself at all.
Relationships: Nate Fick/Mike Wynn
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Sophrosyne

Nate came home late on a brisk autumn evening, crunching through the leaves on the sidewalk. The taxi had inexplicably dropped him off two blocks away, and so he walked through the quiet little neighbourhood alone but for a couple of people out walking their dogs. All around, golden light was spilling out of windows and he could smell dinner cooking in a dozen houses. The last thing he had eaten was an unpleasant slice of pepperoni pizza at the airport before he got on his flight, baked solid under the hot lamps. He was tired and hungry: his backpack felt heavier than it should have, although all he had was his essentials in there and a couple of textbooks.

When he got to the end of the block he paused. All the lights at the front of the last house were off, and the path to the door was shrouded in shadow. He had a key, and yet somehow he didn't yet feel like he could just walk up and let himself in. It was six o’clock, too early for Mike to be in bed, so maybe he was out. Nate hovered indecisively and then, annoyed with himself, marched up the path and assertively knocked on the door.

A minute passed. Then another.

Nate shifted the weight of his backpack. Wondered if he should get his key out.

Then a light came on in the hall and he heard the door being unlocked. And it opened, and Mike was standing there in sweatpants and the decrepit blue Nike t-shirt that he never would get rid of. Nate watched as his face broke into a grin of uncomplicated joy.

‘Nate!’ He flung his arms open and, exhausted, Nate stepped into them. He let his backpack hit the floor behind him and rested his forehead on Mike’s shoulder; kind of a weird pose when he was a head taller. Mike had the sweet-smelling humidity about him of a man who’d just stepped out of the shower.

‘The lights were off,’ Nate mumbled into Mike’s sturdy shoulder. ‘I thought you were out.’

‘Takin’ a bath,’ said Mike.

‘In the dark?’

‘Yup.’ Mike chuckled. ‘It’s restful.’ He got his hands on Nate’s shoulders and held him to take a good look.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Nate, ‘I look like shit.’

‘You look tired. Want me to run _you_ a bath?’

‘In the dark?’ Nate tried to smile.

‘If you like.’

‘Maybe later.’

Mike shut the door and gently steered Nate into the lounge, parking him on the couch. Nate kicked off his shoes. In the kitchen, Mike clattered around benignly. The kettle went on, and the fridge opened and closed. The loose floorboard by the pantry creaked a couple of times. Mike was humming to himself. Making food that Nate hadn't asked for and didn't really want, even though he was hungry. The thought of eating closed his throat up.

Mike would feed anyone who came in through the door, though. It was his thing.

'Still kicking?' Mike asked a few minutes later, coming in with plates and a pair of beers, bottles dripping with condensation.

'I'm fine,' Nate said, but he was lying and he knew that Mike knew it.

* * *

The kid looked like shit, Mike thought, as he watched Nate pick at his food. Usually Nate liked a grilled cheese with crispy edges, but he was chewing every mouthful like it was a punishment. And he looked tired, unusually tired. Give Nate even five hours of sleep a night and he was good to go, ready to rock and roll and make a goofy joke to boot. So he hadn't even been getting that, Mike figured.

He sipped his beer so it didn't seem too much like he was sitting there staring at Nate. As he sipped, he turned it all over in his mind. How to answer the looming riddle: why did Nate come home unexpectedly? It wasn't like Nate at all. In the normal course of things, Mike would have received a phone call checking his availability—_I don't want to impose_—and then an email with his schedule, and a text before his plane departed. And one from the airport with an ETA.

Mike wanted to ask Nate a thousand questions, of the kind that he used to ask back in Iraq. All the stuff you did for your officer, because you figured they were too busy or too straight-up dumb to do it for themselves. When did you last eat? When did you last sleep? For how long? Did you sign the paperwork? Did you figure out the solution to the problem? What can I execute on? What do you need from me right now?

Except they weren’t in Iraq any more, and Nate had made it very clear that he didn’t want his boyfriend Mike to continue to be his Gunny. That there was something fucked up about that in a relationship; that there was no hierarchy, as far as Nate was concerned. Mike knew he wasn’t a guy who had ego issues. On the other hand, he didn’t like to show his ass when he was ignorant, either. He hadn’t yet figured out how he wanted to approach this sticky interpersonal issue with Nate, and so he did what he firmly believed everyone should do when they didn’t have a clue: he kept his goddamn mouth shut.

‘Want another one?’ he asked eventually, pointing to Nate’s beer.

‘Nah,’ said Nate. ‘Thanks, though.’ He fiddled with the half-abandoned crusts of his grilled cheese, slowly abrading them away into a pile of crumbs on his plate. Mike itched to remove the whole thing to the kitchen and tidy it away.

‘Let’s put on a movie,’ he said instead, more placidly than he felt.

‘Sure.’ Nate coiled his long legs onto the sofa. ‘Something we’ve seen before,’ he requested. Mike looked along his DVD shelf and finally picked out _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. He showed Nate the case, and Nate nodded. As the machine whirred away, Mike came to sit by Nate and automatically stretched his arm out so that Nate could slide over. It was hard to tell over the sound of the menu music, but Mike thought that Nate sighed as he rested his head on Mike’s shoulder. He was tense and unhappy, and that made Mike tense and unhappy. Nate never would complain about anything, or put anything down so that Mike could pick it up for a while. He didn’t like to dump his crap on other people.

Usually Nate liked to pick apart movies, even the terrible ones. Well, especially the terrible ones. No way Mike was ever allowed to turn off his brain and watch some garbage with Nate around: Nate could figure out a plot in ten minutes and couldn’t shut up about it. Once a firm believer in the power of shutting the fuck up during movies, Mike now found Nate’s stream of analysis endearing. It was his smarts coming out sideways, Mike guessed.

So it was almost uncanny to have Nate lean on his shoulder silently and watch without pointing out a single plot hole or costume inaccuracy. All Mike could do was hold him and watch quietly, and hope that whatever was up with him was something a good night’s sleep and a cooked breakfast could fix.

At bedtime, Nate went up the stairs with his backpack, silently washed and brushed his teeth, and was asleep by the time Mike got as far as the bedroom. Even asleep his mouth was tight. He looked very young; he was very young. Mike turned the light off and slid into bed carefully, so he didn’t wake Nate.

* * *

'Sleep well?'

'Slept fine. Is that bacon?'

'Yup.' Mike slid the plate in front of him.

This morning, the dark circles under Nate's eyes had receded slightly. Still, he had been sluggish out of bed and took so long in the shower that Mike silently gave up on the hope that there'd be any hot water left. Mike had retreated downstairs to make breakfast. When Nate came down he was in sweatpants and one of Mike's comfortable old hoodies, which was boyishly short in the arms and which he'd had to leave unzipped.

'Sorry for showing up out of the blue last night,' Nate told him as they got started on breakfast, with the weird, WASPy formality he retreated into when he was uncomfortable.

'You don't need to book an appointment,' Mike told him. 'It's your house too.'

'You own it,' Nate countered. 'I don't even pay rent.'

'That's not the point,' muttered Mike. He buttered a slice of toast with more aggression than was really necessary.

'Mm,' Nate said around a mouthful of bacon, 'still.'

'Exams starting in a week?' Mike asked, even though he already knew. Just to deflect any bickering, which he disliked at any time but especially over breakfast.

'Yeah.'

'And you're ready?'

'Sure.' Nate gave a bright smile that made him look like he was wearing a particularly disturbing mask. _Jesus Christ,_ Mike thought to himself.

‘What do you want to do today?’ he asked eventually. They had finished breakfast and were drinking the last of the coffee. Outside was bright and clear without the usual abysmal heat.

‘What were you going to do?’

‘Run errands,’ said Mike with a shrug. ‘Gotta go to the DMV, if that thrills you.’

‘Maybe it does?’

‘And Costco?’

‘Why not?’

‘Jesus, I can think of a dozen reasons,’ said Mike. ‘Stay home, watch TV, study. Take a break.’

‘I kinda want to get out,’ said Nate. ‘I’m going stir crazy studying.’

‘So let’s—’

‘I’ll tag along with you,’ said Nate quickly. ‘I don’t want to mess with your plans.’

‘Okay,’ Mike said equably, and they loaded the dishwasher in companionable domestic silence. The silence persisted as they loaded a few plastic crates into Mike’s truck and got in. It continued out of Mike’s neighbourhood and onto the highway. Nate leaned back in his seat and watched the road go by outside his window for miles and miles. He barely moved.

Was now the time? Mike thought to himself. While he had Nate trapped in the truck, maybe he could get some sense out of him. He cast a covert glance to his right. Nate had closed his eyes, maybe napping.

On second thought, maybe not.

‘Make yourself useful,’ Mike told him cheerfully as they got out of the truck. He handed Nate the pile of plastic crates, grabbed his own rucksack and fished for his shopping list in his back pocket. Nate leaned over to read it.

‘Virtuous,’ he said. ‘All those vegetables.’

‘I get ‘em fresh while I can,’ said Mike. The smell of baking assailed them as they walked through the double doors. Mike grabbed a cart and Nate shoved the crates onto the bottom shelf. ‘Great, now I want bread.’

‘So get bread.’

‘Can’t go too hard on the carbs these days,’ Mike said, ruefully patting his belly. Nate liked to go jogging for fun; Mike didn’t choose to make his own life any harder, thanks.

‘You look good,’ Nate said. ‘And I think you know that.’

The hubris of youth, Mike thought; let that rangy son of a bitch see the other side of thirty.

They strolled the aisles, Nate getting ahead with his long legs and then stopping for Mike to catch up. Mike sent him off on little errands, just to keep him moving. Grocery shopping with Nate. If someone had told Mike that would be the shape his life would take, he wouldn’t have believed it.

‘Oh hey,’ said Nate suddenly, coming back to life in the snack aisle. He reached behind Mike. ‘I haven’t had these in years. My mom used to put them in my lunchbox.’

‘Snowballs?’

‘Yeah. I used to peel off the marshmallow and eat the cake first. With milk.’

‘Of course you did.’ Mike took them and put them in the cart before Nate could protest. ‘I used to get a ham and cheese sandwich every day.’

‘Dark times.’

‘Yeah, and I had to make it myself.’

‘Before or after you walked uphill both ways in the snow?’

Mike laughed, even though it was weak stuff from Nate. He laughed because it was another thing he liked about Nate: Nate knew where Mike had come from and didn’t act weird about it. Didn’t pity him, the latchkey son of a single mom, but didn’t act like it never happened either. Sometimes you got that with those college officers. Like anyone who didn’t grow up with foreign holidays and music lessons was a different species.

‘Know what I miss?’ Mike asked, suddenly back in one of his childhood apartments, sticky linoleum under his bare feet and Mom’s pig-shaped kitchen clock ticking away. ‘Box mix birthday cake.’

‘Vanilla or chocolate?’

‘Chocolate. With the frosting, you know.’

‘Sprinkles?’

‘You bet.’ Mike chuckled. ‘My birthday treat, every year.’

‘I used to get McDonalds,’ said Nate. They turned into the hot drink aisle.

‘For your birthday?’

‘I wasn’t usually allowed fast food,’ said Nate, starting to blush. ‘It’s _unhealthy._’

‘You eat it in undergrad?’

‘Sometimes. I always felt kinda weird about it, though. Like I was getting away with something. Not in a long time, now.’ Nate paused, inspecting the back of a can of bright pink frosting. ‘I could go for it right now, actually.’

‘All I gotta do is buy you a Happy Meal on the way home, huh?’

Nate considered it. ‘And an apple pie,’ he said.

‘You’re a tough negotiator,’ said Mike, choosing his coffee beans carefully. ‘But I think I can meet your terms.’

‘We’ll deserve it after the DMV.’

‘Fuck the DMV. I’ll go next week.’ Nate opened his mouth as if to protest. ‘Next week, Nate. It’s not important.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ They turned the corner. ‘Hey, who the hell buys a lawnmower at Costco?’

‘You know I never set foot inside a Costco before I met you?’

‘No kidding?’

‘No kidding.’ Nate smiled. ‘This makes me feel like a legitimate adult.’

‘That’s good,’ Mike said. ‘For a lot of reasons.’

‘We should get one of those chickens next time,’ said Nate. He made a rotisserie turning gesture with one hand. ‘You know the ones. I’ll make coleslaw.’

Mike turned his head to have a private smile, having had some experience with Nate’s idea of cooking.

* * *

‘Going for a run,’ Nate said, once dinner had had a chance to settle. After their trip to McDonald’s, they’d given up on anything but chips and dip for an evening meal. They had both found McDonald’s weirdly disorienting. There were computer screen menus now that rotated too fast to read. The menu had changed a lot, Mike thought. He never wanted to find out what a McFlurry was. In the end, Nate had had a burger, although Mike had thought there was a fifty-fifty chance he’d get a Happy Meal just to brazen it out. Mike got a spicy chicken thing and a tragic salad.

‘Long run?’ he asked Nate now.

Nate shrugged. ‘Five miles or something. Be back when I’m back.’

He didn’t take music or a watch, and he didn’t warm up. Mike watched him set off, looked away, and then he was gone. Mike cleaned the kitchen. He did some half-assed push-ups. He finally changed the lightbulb in the downstairs toilet that had burned out a week ago. Something about Nate’s nervous energy was rubbing off on him and he didn’t like it one bit.

About an hour later, Nate came in the front door, dripping sweat on the hardwood.

‘Five miles or something?’

‘Out to—the lake—and back—’ said Nate, through breaths.

‘Nearly seven, then. Having a shower?’

‘Yeah.’ Nate sat on the stairs and unlaced his shoes.

‘Want some company?’

For a moment, Nate's fingers froze on his shoelaces. Then he said, 'sure,' with an easiness that sounded obviously feigned. That made Mike want to back out. Except Nate wasn't the type to say yes when he meant no. And Mike wasn't the type to withhold something Nate wanted. So he trailed Nate up the stairs and watched him undress and get the shower running for the second time today. Mike stripped off his sweatpants and t-shirt, and dropped his boxers on top.

The water was hot again and Mike scrubbed quickly, because he could smell himself. Then he turned his attention to Nate. Surprisingly, Nate let himself be washed, hair first, then chest and back. Mike took his time, enjoying as he always did the strong, smooth lines of Nate's waist, his pert ass.

Mike turned Nate around by the hips, so that he was facing the wall. Not even convincingly soaping him any more. He got his mouth right up where Nate's shoulder met his neck. Pressed their bodies together. He wanted Nate to feel him getting hard, wanted him to get into it too. There'd never been a time before this weekend when they hadn't been all over each other as soon as the front door was closed. Everything felt wrong. Perhaps Mike could make it right.

'We doing this in the shower?' Nate asked, trying to look backwards over his shoulder at Mike.

'You want to?'

'No lube in the shower.'

'I can take a hint.' Mike turned the water off. He stretched for towels, wrapping his own around his waist. Nate always liked to dry himself off bit by bit. Mike watched him do it, hands itching to reach for him. Had to be patient: Nate hated walking around the house still damp.

'What do you want?' Mike asked, when Nate finally hung up his towel. He nosed around at Nate’s ear and jaw while he waited for a response.

'Fuck, I don't know,' Nate said in the end. Then something intense and wanting came across his face; eyelids dropped, tongue touching his lower lip for the briefest moment. 'Let's just go to bed.' His hands came to Mike's hips and pulled him in. Mike didn't at all mind kissing up on him for a while. It got a little messy there in the doorway, hands under towels and mouths wet and urgent.

Yeah, Mike didn't mind it at all. It did interesting things to a man, to know he was wanted the way Nate wanted him. And even if Nate was tired and withdrawn he still looked good, felt good, smelled good, tasted good.

'I missed you,' Mike told him low and soft.

Nate made a small noise against Mike's jaw. Fretful or frustrated. Fine: no sweet talk.

'What do you want?' Mike said, keeping his voice low. He was expecting Nate’s usual menu of replies. _Anything you want_, or _Can I blow you_ or occasionally _Surprise me_, which was Nate’s roundabout way of suggesting that Mike blow _him_.

‘Choke me,’ Nate said abruptly.

The parts of Mike’s brain responsible for his dick and his common sense lit up with unusual synchronicity.

'Nate, that's dangerous.' He took a good look at Nate. A look up, from this close; Nate was a tall guy. His shoulders were rounded down miserably.

'So was Iraq,' said Nate, mouth tight.

Mike opened and closed his mouth a couple of times and then, aware that he looked like a fish in a tank, shut it properly. He pressed a thoughtful kiss to Nate’s jaw, and then one to his unhappy mouth.

'Is that what this is about?' he said eventually, not really wanting to address it but unsure how else to respond. He didn’t like thinking about work when he wasn’t at work, and he especially didn’t like thinking about _that_ kind of work. Nate had just come right out with it, though. Left it right there, like a challenge.

'My preferences don't have to be _about_ anything,' Nate said. It was about what Mike had expected.

'Didn't say they had to be,' Mike muttered. But it was hard to focus when Nate was pressed up against him. He wasn't going to make a federal case of it. Especially when Nate was more animated than Mike had seen him in the past twenty four hours. So instead he walked Nate backwards to the bedroom, gave him a gentle shove onto the bed, and crawled in between his thighs.

Nate's attention was suddenly dialled all the way in, his green eyes large and intent. Mike noticed how he was still only half hard and blew him for a while. Just to give himself some thinking time. The troubling images of his training bubbled to the surface; the unarmed, hand to hand stuff, where Mike had learned all the fragilities and weakness of the human body. Like the throat. The windpipe and the jugular.

On the other hand, if Mike knew how to exploit those tender, delicate places, he could avoid them. He pulled off and looked at Nate. Nate’s head was turned into the pillow, one hand palm-up next to his face, and the other resting lightly on his chest. Under the tanned skin of his throat, his pulse quivered. Nate had planted the thought and now it grew into a real possibility. The curve of Nate’s throat and his Adam’s apple were just an arm’s length away. Mike put his palms on either side of Nate’s waist and settled himself over Nate’s thighs. He sat back on his heels and absently stroked his own dick, looking at Nate, passive and quiet in his bed.

‘If you want me to stop,’ Mike said slowly, considering.

‘I won’t,’ Nate said. He didn’t open his eyes.

‘Tap me on the arm,’ Mike said, ignoring him. He took hold of Nate’s hand, kissed his knuckles. Then he touched Nate’s fingers to his own bicep. Nate's hand made a ticklish path along it and into the crook of his elbow

'Okay.'

With no preamble, Mike resettled himself so that he was astride Nate’s hips. Nate's dick twitched in the crease of Mike's thigh. Mike wanted to be able to feel it, wanted Nate to have that contact. He planted his left elbow by Nate's shoulder, thinking with horrible interest as he did so, _one wrong move and I could crush his windpipe_.

He touched Nate's throat. Nate gasped, his body arching already. His mouth stayed open. Mike got his fingers around under Nate's ear, trying to remember the anatomy: was it the carotid you weren't supposed to lean on?

Nate's breathing was quick and shallow. Mike had never heard him like that, not even under fire. Danger close three hundred metres away and Nate remembered his training and kept up even box breathing. Right now Mike was hardly touching him, but Nate was hyperventilating like he was being choked out on the mat. And he was desperately hard.

Mike reached his thumb up to brush Nate’s lower lip. Nate barely reacted. His lip twitched but he wasn’t really there. His eyes were closed again and he was whining out his short, fast breaths.

‘Nate,’ said Mike quietly, and then a little louder. He watched the roll and flicker of Nate’s eyeballs behind his eyelids. Their faces were so close together that Nate’s body heat was radiating into Mike’s cheek. ‘Nate.’

Nate hadn’t tapped out. That should have meant he was still okay with it. Mike was a little weirded out, though. Nate might have been into it, but Mike’s dick was struggling to stay hard. He idly rubbed off against Nate for a half minute. Nate made an anguished sound. He arched his back up, not trying for friction against his dick but pressing his throat towards Mike’s tentative palm. It seemed like permission. Mike set his jaw and tightened his grip on Nate’s throat.

A shiver ran through Nate. His body was trembling as though he was fatigued from a long run. The rough curve of his big toe, right along the outside edge, vibrated against Mike’s ankle. His eyes were squeezed closed, tighter than seemed possible. Nate’s breathing whined through his throat. Mike choked it off, wondering _when do I stop, when will he tell me to stop_.

_Too far_ seemed too close. It was incredibly quiet in the bedroom, nothing but Nate’s breath and Mike’s own, going in and out in opposite rhythms, Nate’s a little faster. Even though Nate was the one getting his breath cut off, it was Mike who felt light-headed. His vision was threatening to blur. Nate was fading into almost-invisibility as the light outside dimmed and dimmed into true night.

Then Mike was falling for real, he thought, sliding sideways; and then he realised it was Nate twisting his hips, Nate’s hands on Mike’s chest shoving him away. He hadn’t tapped out; he had panicked, shoved Mike off him.

There was an uneven thud as Nate’s feet hit the floor, one-two, and then the sound of him moving quickly away from the bed.

'Christ's sake, Nate,' Mike said, but Nate didn't reply. He fumbled on a pair of pants and stumbled out of the bedroom. The next thing Mike heard was the bathroom door locking, and then nothing for a long time. Mike didn't follow him. He obviously didn't want to be followed. He did lie awake as the minutes stretched by, perhaps into an hour. Until he heard the door unlock, and the sound of Nate tiptoeing away downstairs.

Well, shit.

Much later, in the early hours, when Mike was still lying awake turning everything over in his mind, Nate came creeping back to bed. It was hard for a man of his stature to creep in a seventy year old house. Mike heard him coming as soon as he reached the stairs and closed his eyes, regulated his breathing.

Nate slipped into bed, pausing halfway. He settled in, sighed quietly.

The shameful thought occurred to Mike that he could take the coward's way out: pretend to be asleep, defer the uncomfortable conversation until tomorrow morning or, better yet, never. But he was awake thinking, and Nate was awake thinking, and Mike's dad always told him never to go to sleep on an argument.

Once Nate had stopped moving (Mike could see him in his mind's eye, on his belly with one knee hooked up and his left arm under the pillow, foot hanging off the edge of the bed) Mike reached out. His hand found the cool, bare skin of Nate's shoulder blade.

'You okay?'

Nate's breath caught but he didn't say anything. He didn't move away from Mike's hand though. Mike rolled onto his side so he could rub Nate's back.

‘No,’ Nate said in a whisper. He shifted closer to Mike, until Mike could feel his breath. Mike tucked his chin over Nate’s head and let Nate curl into him. ‘It doesn’t matter, though.’

Mike didn’t press it, even though it mattered a lot. He just kept rubbing Nate’s back in slow circles.

* * *

‘It was stupid,’ Nate said the next day. They stood in the middle of Mike’s garage, staring at the mess. It was a long overdue task, clearing everything out and taking all the garbage to the municipal dump. Nate had woken up on fire to get it done. _Displacement activity_, Mike had thought, thinking about to the dumb seminar on the delayed effects of combat stress which he had assumed, like everyone else in the room, would never be relevant.

‘Bet it wasn’t,’ Mike told him. ‘Hey, let’s start back here, make some space.’

‘Some kid in my polsci class. Really, a kid.’ Nate pinched the bridge of his nose. He slid around the end of the shelving unit and started taking cardboard boxes off and stacking them on the floor. ‘We were talking about policy in the Middle East.’ He made a little handwaving gesture, _you know the thing, whatever_.

‘Sounds like fun.’

‘No kidding. Iraq came up. You know the arguments. The kid said something dumb.’ Nate snorted. ‘And then I said something dumb. Shouldn’t have brought up personal experience. Should have kept it theoretical.’

Mike tried to keep a poker face at the thought of Nate maintaining a theoretical position on something he gave a shit about.

‘Uh huh,’ he said, trying not to betray himself.

‘Kid said something about, uh,’ Nate was pretending to look through a box. He was no longer looking at Mike. His fingers drummed unevenly on the cardboard. ‘It doesn’t matter what, anyway.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You know, it was just fucking stupid. The guys talked so much shit out there all the time and I never cared.’

‘Just part of the job.’

‘Just part of the job,’ echoed Nate.

‘Little shitbird, though,’ said Mike. ‘Hope you fucking told him.’

‘I couldn’t,’ said Nate, helplessly. ‘A dozen people staring, and all of them thought I was some kind of warmongering asshole who keeps a shrine to ExxonMobil in my dorm room. I just sat there and bailed as soon as class ended.’

Mike slid his arm around Nate’s shoulder and pulled him in for a kiss.

‘Don’t give that asshole space in your head,’ he said.

‘Too late,’ said Nate. He sighed. ‘That was Friday before lunch. I went back to my room and cashed in some air miles, first flight they had on Saturday afternoon.’

‘When’s the return flight?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘You on break until next week? Leave that box to the side, it’s my sister’s.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Change your flight. Stay all week.’

‘Okay,’ Nate said, suddenly compliant. ‘Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Mike.’

‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘I don’t know. I was ashamed, I think. To make a fuss. Guys went through worse than I did. These are all expired, you should throw them out.’

‘No need to tell _me_ that,’ said Mike. ‘I’ve been doing this job for nearly two decades. Still doing it.’

‘Well, exactly. I’m just a college kid now. Again.’ Nate gave a wry, tight little smile.

‘Nate,’ said Mike, shaking his head. ‘You know you’ve never been _just_ anything.’ Nate didn’t seem to get that, or perhaps Mike just wasn’t any good at eloquence. Either way, Nate brushed it off and kept going.

‘It wasn’t,’ he said crisply, ‘as if I had anything to complain about.’

‘Yeah, you just don’t complain.’

‘I could whine more, if that’d amuse you.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Mike tugged at the back of his t-shirt collar, where he could feel the label had flipped up. ‘I mean, maybe if you talked about it.’

‘To you?’

‘To anyone.’

Nate looked away and swallowed. Mike watched his throat move. It was ridiculous to be having this conversation at all, let alone having it while decluttering and cleaning his garage.

‘I don’t know, Mike,’ Nate said at last.

Mike stepped in a little closer and took a gentle hold of Nate’s bicep. Soothingly, like he was trying to tame a wild horse.

‘Is that what yesterday was all about? Punishing yourself?’

‘I don’t have anything to be punished for,’ Nate said. ‘I did my job. I feel okay about having done my job. I knew what I was signing up for.’

‘All right.’ Mike kept it neutral.

‘It wasn’t punishment,’ Nate insisted. ‘I don’t actually know.’ He frowned.

‘You thought it would help.’

Nate’s hands came up, a half-shrug. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said again. He swallowed an uncomfortable laugh. ‘I’d always thought about it. Just one of those things. I don’t know why I put the two together. It’s ridiculous.’

Mike cocked his head to one side. ‘You want to try it again?’

‘Yes,’ Nate said quickly, as if he might lose the opportunity if he hesitated.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Mike reached out and put his hand on Nate’s throat. Nate’s eyes went wide. Mike wasn’t putting any pressure on him at all. More resting his wrist bone on Nate’s clavicle, thumb and forefinger making light contact. He watched the slight dilation of Nate’s pupils and felt his pulse picking up.

‘Don’t tease me,’ Nate whispered. He was flushed and pressing his lips together in the way that he did when he was unsuccessfully trying to disguise strong emotion. Mike knew him too well. He leaned in and touched a quick kiss to Nate’s mouth. Nate’s breath shivered out, warm and humid.

‘I’m not,’ he told Nate. He stepped in closer, boxing Nate into the corner between the shelving unit and the wall. The movement tucked his hand up closer against Nate’s throat. Nate closed his eyes and let the back of his head touch the wall. ‘Want to take this to the bedroom?’

‘No,’ Nate said. He was pressing his palms against the wall by his hips, Mike noticed, with his fingernails going white. In fact his whole body was tense. Not a tenseness from fear, but more a kind of alertness, a readiness. Mike knew it well. Had known it in Nate almost before he had a real sense of Nate’s personality. Nate was bracing himself for adrenaline and for pain.

Wanting to bring him back down a notch, Mike relaxed his hand onto the broad sweep of muscle along Nate’s chest. Right across his breastbone. He leaned in and kissed Nate. Kissed him like he was never going to see him again after today, like Nate was drowning and Mike was trying to bring him back to life. Some deep and wanting thing shuddered to life in Mike’s chest. He had never consciously thought this before, although now he realised that he’d always known it: he had never loved anyone like he loved Nate, and probably never would after him.

This kind of dumb, risky play made Mike worry for Nate. Yet he worried even more that he wouldn’t be able to give Nate what he needed. He was intent on doing exactly that, for as long as Nate would let him. Nate’s body was arching up into Mike’s. What he needed was pretty goddamn obvious. He needed Mike to take care of business for him, like Mike had always done.

‘I got you,’ Mike said against Nate’s cheek, just so he knew.

Then he closed his fingers around Nate’s throat.

He could feel Nate swallow, and the little bumps of his razor burn, and his quick, prey-like pulse. Mike knew it was only his imagination, but somehow, like a subtle magnetic pull, Mike could feel Nate’s desperate need. Nate needed security, and he needed comfort, and he needed someone to get him out of his own head when he couldn’t do it himself.

Mike tightened his grip a touch. Nate’s moan vibrated through all the tiny bones of Mike’s hand. Fumbling blindly with his left hand, Mike palmed downwards until he found the hard line of Nate’s dick through his pants. It was easy to apply pressure with both hands, and talk Nate through it with words that were probably nonsense. Nate came apart under Mike’s fingers with surprising speed. And unlike the night before he seemed to melt into surrender, a total, unguarded state that made Mike feel both savagely predatory and protective all in one.

Mike himself was hard but it could wait. Delayed gratification had never been an issue for him. He pushed that away and let Nate rub himself off against Mike’s hand, and concentrated on the careful press against Nate’s throat.

Nate’s mouth was open and his lower lip trembled for a moment. It hardly seemed possible that he didn’t need to breath yet. Mike realised he was holding his breath along with Nate, and that a bead of sweat was trickling down the centre of his back. Soon he would have to stop; soon Nate would have to stop. It was too much, too much—and then suddenly it was over, Nate arching his neck back and gasping a hoarse breath, whining it out. His cock twitched under Mike’s hand and one of Nate’s hands flew out to grab the metal shelf, holding on for dear life.

‘Mike,’ Nate said helplessly, breathlessly, happily. He wiped his forehead with his wrist and stepped forward into Mike’s waiting arms.

If Mike hadn’t been with Nate all day, he might have said that Nate was coming down off a drug-induced high, afterwards. He clung to Mike’s waist, gently rubbing his cheek on Mike’s shoulder. His eyes were closed. Nate didn’t say anything for a long time, so Mike didn’t either.

Eventually, when _pleasant_ had looped all the way back around to _uncomfortable_, Mike very gently cleared his throat. They were standing in a garage, and Mike’s bad knee was starting to hurt.

‘Hey,’ he said softly. Nate made an affirmative noise into Mike’s neck. ‘Let’s go somewhere with chairs.’

* * *

‘Strictly speaking,’ Nate said later, patiently peeling potatoes and taking the eyes out with surgical care, ‘I should probably be in therapy.’

‘Shit, strictly speaking we all should be,’ Mike said. He was dicing the potatoes as Nate handed them over. ‘You going to find someone?’

‘Probably not,’ Nate admitted. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘If it was I’d be a hypocrite,’ said Mike. ‘Put ‘em in the bin, not all over the floor.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nate, unsticking stray potato peelings from the kitchen tiles. Mike watched him, his forehead creased with concentration. There was a bit of peel clinging to his t-shirt; Mike’s t-shirt, actually.

_This is who I’m going to spend the rest of my life with,_ Mike thought bemusedly. And it was only when Nate looked up at him with his boyish smile breaking across his face like a sunrise that Mike realised he’d said it out loud.


End file.
